


Seagull

by rhosyndu



Category: British TV Celebrities RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Comedy, Crack, M/M, Wingfic, old LJ fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 05:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19805563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosyndu/pseuds/rhosyndu
Summary: Jeremy calls at James' house and is horrified to see Piers Morgan there, in a dressing gown.





	Seagull

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in October 2007.

It's an early Autumn Tuesday morning when Piers Morgan opens James May's front door.  
  
Jeremy, hands buried deep in his jacket- not bouncing on the step with impatience because he's not Richard Hammond- goggles at him. There really isn't another word for it.  
  
Piers smiles and stands back with a flourish to let him in.  
  
Jeremy goggles some more.  
  
As much fun as it is to have Clarkson goldfishing at him, when Piers realises that Jeremy isn't going to move without a boot in the arse he snaps, “My coffee's getting cold; I'm closing this door in five seconds no matter what side of it you are.”  
  
Jeremy steps hurriedly inside but before the words, 'What the _fuck_ , Morgan?' make it out of his mouth, the man himself has turned and walked back into James' kitchen. It's only as Jeremy stares at the hideous purple dressing gown that Morgan's wearing- and definitely not at the way it clings to his arse as he walks, definitely not- that he realises it's May's dressing gown. He doesn't think of any of the implications from Piers wearing a piece of James' intimate clothing because that fact alone is disgusting enough to cause parts of his brain that he didn't know he owned to protectively fuse up and die.  
  
He stands still with one finger raised, and just before he's going to start shouting, Piers leans out of the kitchen and brandishes the _Telegraph_. “If you're going to talk to May, tell him to get a better newspaper in; I'm sick of reading this rubbish.”  
  
Jeremy's mouth is open, but silent. It's an unusual event. If James wasn't asleep right now, he'd be scribbling it on the calender with glee.  
  
“And some filter coffee,” Piers adds before Jeremy can get started, “This instant stuff is like licking the bottom of a pond.” He kicks the door closed and starts to count under his breath to ten; he's at four when Jeremy stomps up the stairs.  
  
Piers knows this'll be good, so picks up his cup and heads upstairs to watch the show. He's on the landing when Jeremy staggers backwards out of James' bedroom. If Clarkson's hairline wasn't receding, then his eyebrows would be in it; as it is they're not, but it's a close run thing.  
  
“What did you _do_ to him?”  
  
Piers pulls a sanguine smile out of his repertoire. “Contrary to what you might believe Clarkson, that doesn't normally happen to the people I sleep with.”  
  
He walks past Jeremy and into the room where James sleeps, one arm thrown over his face and one wing curled around his torso, the other fanned out across the bed behind him. There's no golden sunlight this morning, but there really should be as it would make the white feathers look positively angelic. As it is they look more grey than white, tatty and seagull-esque.  
  
Leaning against the wall by the dresser, Piers tells Jeremy, “He does have a tendency to take up the whole bed with them, but they can be rather fun mid-shag.”  
  
Jeremy can't find his bearings enough to get a damn good shout in, but manages to splutter redundantly, “He didn't used to have those!”  
  
“Seen him naked often?” Piers asks blithely.  
  
Jeremy, not being a fan of bikes doesn't know that the noise he makes is exactly like a 1972 CB350 starting up. Piers doesn't know this either and James is still fast asleep, so there's no one there to tell him.  
  
He balls his fists up and digs them into his eyes until he can see after images flickering behind them. When he realises what of, he takes them away again. “Obviously, seeing you almost naked has given me brain tumours, and I'm now hallucinating wildly. This is the only possible explanation.”  
  
James, in a bid for the world's heaviest sleeper, snores and shifts slightly, making the covers slither about. Thankfully for Jeremy's sanity, the sheet doesn't slide off his groin. Unthankfully, there's an early morning reason for this tenting the sheet.  
  
Jeremy really wishes he hadn't taken his hands away from his eyes.  
  
Piers notices and a sly grin threatens to split his face in half; he goes to twitch the sheet away but Jeremy grabs his wrist in time. “If you do that, I'm going to hurt you in ways that your children will be feeling when they're born,” Jeremy warns.  
  
Piers smiles as sweetly as he can. “Maybe this is all just one big bad dream.”  
  
Jeremy pinches him.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“Did that hurt?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“You're supposed to pinch yourself, you slobbering pillock.” Piers snatches his arm back and rubs it peevishly.  
  
Jeremy shrugs, “And why would I want to do that?” then reaches out and plucks one single feather from the closest white wing. There is an immediate yelp of pain from James, followed by some comic flailing about in the bed. And, as it turns out, a man with two extra limbs is rather good at flailing.  
  
What happens next is rather impressive; the wings twitch and shimmer like morning dew on a cobweb before quickly fading away into nothing. In less than two seconds, all the evidence for them ever having been there is between Jeremy's thumb and forefinger.  
  
James flaps at the air with his hands and blinks wildly, shaggy tresses flying as he shakes his head at the morning. “What- what- _what_? Piers- what?” He screws up his face and slowly unscrunches it a bit at a time.  
  
Not willing to wait through this palaver, Clarkson thunders, “You've a lot of explaining to do, May.”  
  
James goes rather still, then unblinks his eyes open. He looks from Jeremy to the feather in his hands. “Oh, cock.”  
  
“Not this-!” Jeremy shakes the feather and throws it to the floor- tries to anyway, it drifts vaguely downwards and he swats angrily at it for spoiling the effect. “This-!” He points behind James at Piers, who grins and uncrosses one arm to wave at him.  
  
“Oh.” James sighs. “Cock.” He closes his eyes again. It looks like he's counting under his breath before he says, more calmly than a man who has all the explaining in the world to do should, “Is there any chance of a cup of tea?”


End file.
